


just a broken machine

by Loz



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Blood, Except it's accidental, Gen, Pain, Self-Harm, self-care
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-15
Updated: 2019-04-15
Packaged: 2020-01-14 12:13:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18476008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loz/pseuds/Loz
Summary: Scott can never work out how he’s gotten the injury in the first place, and is equally confused his healing factor hasn’t kicked in.





	just a broken machine

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Scott appreciation week over on tumblr. Give Scott the love and attention he needs, 2kForever.

It’s a Tuesday when Scott first notices. He’s late to class because of a late night helping his selkie friend Mae and the guy who likes to ask ‘provocative questions’ from the front row is pissed because Scott steals their lecturer’s attention.

“Dumbass,” the guy says, scowling, not even bothering to mutter like most people might under the same circumstances.

Scott brushes it off, like he brushes everything at Davis off, because he’s been through way too much to care about pathetic insults. But as he walks to his next class, he notices there’s a paper cut on his finger. Paper cuts usually heal within 30 seconds. But this one stays with him for the rest of the day.

At Lacrosse on Friday, Scott scores the most goals and the opposing team’s captain shakes his hand, but also insinuates Scott’s on steroids.

“There’s no way you’re that quick naturally,” Brad or Brent or Bront says. “I almost feel sorry for you. The side-effects are gonna fuck you up.”

“I don’t take drugs,” Scott counters, because Braeden or Brandon or Brat wasn’t as subtle as Jackson was way back when, and anyway, Scott’s learned his lesson there.

And what Scott wants to say is, _“I train hard. Maybe if you did the same, you wouldn’t have to make baseless accusations.”_

But instead he says, “I just try my best.”

“Yeah. Sure. You lying prick,” the bastard replies, walking away and then flipping Scott off.

That night, Scott has a gash in his arm that he didn’t get playing. A gash that isn’t totally gone in the morning, but instead gives him a persistent ache all through work.

The week passes and more wounds appear, slicing deep into Scott’s skin, making him bleed. He disinfects and dresses the wounds, calls his mom, messages Malia, and meditates. He can never work out how he’s gotten the injury in the first place, and is equally confused his healing factor hasn’t kicked in.

It’s the next Tuesday when he sees the cut spontaneously appear, as one of his lecturers mocks his pronunciation of a term he’s only ever read before. It’s three inches long, carved into his forearm. It begins to bleed profusely and doesn’t let up even when he bandages it.

He calls Alan, but Alan’s never heard of anything like it. He texts Derek, who says he’ll look into it. And he Skypes Stiles, who he initially thinks he isn’t going to tell, but somehow does anyway.

“I’m flying over there and punching the next dick who so much as looks at you funny,” Stiles intones. He isn’t joking.

“As tempting as that is, you need to keep saving up for June.”

“Damn you and your persistent need to be responsible all the time,” Stiles says, then rears back in his chair and stares, horror-stricken.

Scott feels the trickle of blood before he realizes a cut has opened on his forehead, above his right eyebrow. It hurts, but only a little. Stiles’ expression hurts more.

“Scott. Scotty. I am so sorry. I didn’t mean it. I was just… Fuck,” Stiles says, choked up.

Scott grabs a tissue and dabs at the wound. “I know, Stiles. You didn’t mean it. Honestly, don’t worry. I’ll be fine.”

Stiles clearly takes two deep breaths, then moves closer to his camera again. “You think maybe this is why it’s happening?”

“What?”

“The way you take every blow people land on you. The way you discount your own pain. The way you wear the weight of the world on your shoulders and carry it with you everywhere you go like some fucked up wolfy Sisyphus?”

Scott blinks down at his hands, lets out his own calming breath. He hadn’t thought of it that way before. “Maybe. But what should I do? Get angry at every small slight? You’ve seen me angry. It’s dangerous.”

“You don’t need to worry about being dangerous, Scott. You’re the strongest person I know. But what I mean is – maybe this is your body telling you that you need to acknowledge when something hurts. Maybe it’s trying to remind you that you’re allowed to be angry and sad and in pain occasionally.”

They say goodnight after another half hour of chatting and Scott digests Stiles’ suggestions.

The next time Scott’s running drills in Lacrosse training and one of the freshmen murmur that he’s a grade-A asshole, Scott sets aside a minute to recognize how shitty he feels, especially considering he’s been helping out for two hours. A small cut appears on his finger, but it heals within a minute.

For the next month, every time someone says something callous or cruel or petty, Scott allows himself a moment to notice how it hurts. After a while, his body stops reacting to the words as if they were bullets. Scott realizes that he’s been wearing the scars of insults for years, it’s just that before they would never show. And it’s hard, to acknowledge the pain, to force himself to recognize it. It’s so much easier to push it all down and bury it deep.

But it’s so much better, too, inside and out.


End file.
